Jardine narrowed his eyes and grudgingly turned while keeping Fei Long in his view as they continued down the narrow passage.
“The foam-like, breach-filling material within in this particular unit,” Fei Long continued, “will, when exposed to an ignition source, not be ‘set on fire’ but rather will begin to liquefy in a chain reaction thereby creating a thin, thermally-conductive layer of material. This material will serve as a temporary—essentially ablative—heat sink, distributing unwanted thermal energy to the nearby duralloy of the tube.” He raised the canister and placed his thumb on the trigger mechanism as they neared the Jeffries tube where Chief Garibaldi had installed their makeshift transmitter.
“Hold on,” Jardine scoffed, but this time he did not interdict Fei Long’s path, “you’re going to set a fire and melt the foam inside that thing on purpose so that it can gum up the transmitter with residue that you think will conduct the excess heat away?”
Ignoring the other man’s incredulity, Fei Long reached up and plucked a handful of long, jet-black hairs from his own head, which he then handed to Ensign Jardine. “Place those on the transmitter’s distal housing, please,” he instructed. “And then step back.” Human hair has fairly predictable properties when it came to heat and after years of working with electronics operating at maximum output, Fei Long had learned to differentiate the various smells associated with burning hair to the point he could guess temperature within five degrees based on smell alone.
Looking more than a little wary, Jardine did as Fei Long had instructed. A few seconds passed, until the all-too familiar aroma of burning hair filled the air and Fei Long pressed the trigger of the device.
Just as he had expected, there was a barely-visible flare as the propellant ignited, causing his hair to do likewise. The rapidly-expanding, foamy substance spread across the transmitter’s housing as he waved the nozzle left and right to encompass the entire surface of the Jeffries tube surrounding the transmitter housing. As he did so, the foam liquefied precisely as he had predicted and quickly hardened, forming a thin, shiny layer of glassy material through which the transmitter could be easily seen.
Having emptied the contents of the canister, he discarded it to the floor and wiped his hands emphatically feeling rather pleased with himself.
Jardine’s eyebrows were raised in surprise as he turned to Fei Long. “You’ve done this before, I take it?”
Fei Long actually did a double-take, having turned to exit the relay junction before the Ensign had spoken. “Of course not,” he scoffed incredulously, before adding with a shrug, “but it was theoretically possible; I gave myself an eighty three percent chance of success, with only a two percent chance of starting an uncontrollable electrical fire here in the main dish junction. I suggest we return to the bridge, as there is nothing more to be done for this,” he waved his hand at the foul-smelling Jeffries tube as he wrinkled his nose in disgust, “apparatus.”
He made his way toward the exit, hiding a satisfied smirk as he noted Ensign Jardine’s—quickly-concealed—slackened jaw.
Chapter XXV: Closing the Trap
“The Destroyer’s forward shields are down, Captain, and she’s re-oriented to present her stern to us,” Sarkozi reported. “She’s burning her engines at 220% their rated output and she’s making for the hyper limit. Stern shields read…32% with moderate spotting.”
Middleton thumbed his com-link as he saw that the Destroyer had assumed a course which was markedly different than the one he had predicted. “Alexander,” he said as soon at the junior Engineering officer had received his call, “I need those engines for another burn, and I need that burn right now.”
“We’ve had to re-route power, Captain,” Alexander replied. “I can give you the burn, but there’s no guarantee with the grid’s current alignment that the forward shields will withstand another attack without blowing the relays.”
“Just do it,” Middleton ordered, “without that burn we won’t be able to keep them in range long enough to finish the job.”
“Destroyer is passing out of long range and into extreme, Captain,” Sarkozi reported as the Pride’s forward array fired as one. “Five hits,” she reported urgently, “the Wrath’s stern shields are down to 12% with critical spotting—one more salvo should cripple her engines.”
“Overdrive ready, Captain,” Alexander said over the link.
“Burn it, Helm,” Jersey snapped before Middleton could do so, “and adjust course seventeen degrees to starboard.”
“Aye, Commander,” the new Helmsman replied, and the ship’s lighting dimmed as the vessel’s precariously-aligned power grid sagged under the combat draw.
Their icon pursued the Destroyer’s on the main viewer for several seconds, until Captain Rodriguez apparently realized his new course would allow Middleton another full-strength salvo while they remained within the Pride’s heavy laser firing range, so he adjusted his course precisely where Middleton had wanted him to go.
“Without communication we’re going to have to trust the Chief’s judgment,” Jersey said after approaching Middleton’s chair.
Middleton snickered softly. “The Chief’s never been one to miss an opening,” he assured his XO. “He won’t need us to give him the order to fire when they’ve entered range.”
“The Destroyer’s forward shields are still down, Captain,” Sarkozi reported hungrily, and a few seconds later there was a flash from the heretofore-grey icon representing the powered-down Elysium’s Wings.
Chief Garibaldi had gone over to the corvette after their senior staff meeting to re-rig the emergency battery system to the corvette’s plasma cannons, which while possessing extremely short range, were absolutely deadly up close—especially when their target’s hull was unshielded.
The team aboard the Wings had powered down all systems aboard the corvette, including life support, and Garibaldi’s crew had gone over in power armor so as to minimize the ship’s energy emissions. In fact, he had taken the four Tracto-ans over to manually fire the plasma cannons, since none of the gunners were confident they could make the extremely difficult shots without computer assistance.
“Four for four,” Sarkozi said savagely, confirming the Tracto-an’s impressive manual targeting skills, “explosive decompressions showing all along the Wrath’s forward hull; her power grid is fluctuating and the stern shields are nearly down!”
“Send one up her skirts, Ensign!” Middleton flared, immediately turning red-faced and reprimanding himself for such a callous metaphor.
“With pleasure, Captain,” she replied eagerly, apparently taking no offense as the forward battery of the Pride of Prometheus fired for what he sincerely hoped would be the last time during this particular engagement.
The shields of the Cardinal’s Wrath flared briefly, before a series of explosions registered along its stern and the vessel began to list out of control.
“Enemy vessel’s engines are off-line,” Sarkozi reported with gusto. “Their power grid has collapsed; estimate at least twenty minutes before they can re-raise their shields, Captain.”
“Sergeant Joneson,” Middleton activated his com-link, “estimated launch in fourteen minutes.”
“Larry that, Captain,” Joneson replied, presumably from inside the boarding shuttle with the rest of his team.
“I want that ship, Sergeant,” Middleton said seriously, “but more than the ship, I want Captain Rodriguez—alive.”
“Orders received,” Joneson said in his usual, smooth voice, “we’ll teach those Marines a thing or two.”
The com-link cut off and Middleton sat back in his chair, knowing that the rest of this battle was now out of his hands.
“Listen up,” Sergeant Walter Joneson barked, as thirty four power-armored Lancers sat in their grav-harnesses aboard the armored shuttle still moored in the shuttle bay, “we launch in thirteen minutes. That means eighteen minutes from now, every pair of boots on this shuttle will be on the hull of the Cardinal’s Wrath.”
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Lu Bu felt a thrill of excitement like nothing she had ever experienced. She squeezed the grip of her blaster rifle tightly and took deep, calming breaths with the visor of her helmet up, knowing that when the shuttle lifted off she would depend absolutely on her armored suit’s life-support systems.
“Look to your right,” Joneson continued, and Lu Bu did so, finding only a bare duralloy wall since she was seated near the cockpit, “now look to your left.”
She did so and saw the same man whose leg she had broken during the training altercation, and she felt a wave of anger as the words he and her other countrymen had said replayed in her head.
“You’ve all come from different places,” Joneson said, and Lu Bu actually felt his eyes on her briefly, “but none of that matters now. As of this moment, you’re Confederation Lancers and nothing else—check the rest of that rot in this hangar. Do you get me?”
“We get you, sir!” Lu Bu shouted, in unison with the rest of the warriors aboard the cramped shuttle.
“Some of you have seen action,” Walter Joneson continued as he paced up and down the deck, “and for some of you this will be your first taste of live fire. I’ve read each of your files, and aside from these six,” he gestured to the only Lancers to bear Corporal-rank insignia, “none of you has faced armored opponents. This is an at-will organization, and what we’re about to get into will be rougher than anything you’ve experienced, so anyone who wants to sit it out had better get off my shuttle.”
Lu Bu was actually offended the Sergeant would suggest any of his Lancers would balk at the opportunity for combat, but she knew she had been waiting for this moment for years. She ground her teeth quietly and looked down the shuttle for any cowards who might want to run in the face of battle.
But none of the Lancers took the Sergeant up on his offer, so he nodded curtly. “Good,” he growled as his gaze swept the entire shuttle. “The Incumbent class’s standard complement is two dozen Marines,” he said, turning to one of the Corporals. He was a large, dark-skinned man with powerful cheekbones and a nose that had been broken so often that, to Lu Bu, it seemed to be a piece of art—and Joneson pointedly added, “that’s ‘twenty four,’ Gnuko.”
The Corporal hung his head as though in shame, and the men to either side of him mockingly consoled him as a round of chuckles filled the shuttle. Even Walter Joneson smirked as the wave of nervous energy crackled among the Lancers like electricity dancing over their metal armor.
“But these pirates,” Joneson continued just before the wave had subsided, “aren’t likely to play by the rules. Expect twice that number—and expect them to be dug in and waiting with a welcoming party for us.” Corporal Gnuko raised his hand and Joneson sighed as though in exasperation. “What is it, Lancer?”
“What’s the play, Sergeant?” the man asked seriously. “Are we looking at a cut-and-run, or a take-and-hold?”
Lu Bu recognized the terms from Sergeant Joneson’s personal short-hand; a cut-and-run referred to a mission whose primary objective was to cause damage to critical systems in an attempt to disable an enemy vessel’s combat capability. A take-and-hold was much harder, requiring pacification of the enemy crew and the functional seizure of the vessel’s critical areas including Main Engineering, the bridge, Environmental and the armory.
“Neither,” Joneson replied direly, causing eyebrows to rise all across the shuttle, “this is a capture-the-flag.”
Gnuko whistled and the visages of the men around him hardened, while those of the new recruits changed more slowly as realization dawned. A capture-the-flag was a mission whose primary objective was to secure the commanding officer prisoner—and it required that he be alive. It was one of the most difficult mission types, with the highest expected casualty rate, owing to the fact that it required an assault on the enemy’s strongest point while all but abandoning any attempts at deception or subtlety.
“Like I said,” Joneson cut into the deafening silence as he pointed to the still-open hatch, “anyone wants off the shuttle, there’s the door. The book says this is a suicide trip, so I can’t fault any of you for stepping out.” When yet again, no one took him up on the offer, he nodded and continued, “Good…because I have no intention of playing this one by the book.”
He lightly kicked a trio of stacked devices which Lu Bu recognized as boarding tubes. The devices were ring-shaped and housed two distinct apparatuses: the first being a series of cutting torches and other devices which could, with enough time, crack through even the toughest duralloy plating. The second device was a thin, membranous material which would preserve the integrity of the pressurized atmosphere on the other side of the hull which the tube cut through while allowing the Lancers to enter the pressurized environment from the outer hull.
With everyone’s complete attention on him, Sergeant Joneson reached down and began to tear the pressure-membrane’s housing from the boarding tubes. He then discarded them, one by one, out the door of the shuttle. He turned to face the Lancers, who wore looks of varying confusion and added belatedly, “We won’t be needing those.”
He then pressed the button beside the door, causing it to fold up and seal against the hull of the shuttle.
“Touchdown in ten seconds,” the pilot called over the shuttle’s intercom. They had received fire from the Destroyer’s light, point-defense weaponry, but thankfully none of the ship’s larger weapons had come to bear on the incoming shuttle.
Still, the PD weaponry had rocked the little shuttle and nearly knocked it off-course several times as they had adjusted attitude and bearing to stay as far from the primary weapons as possible on approach. Lu Bu found herself strangely calm during all of this, since she knew that there was nothing she could do to help the pilot accomplish his part of the mission.
The shuttle shook and the door opened immediately thereafter, causing the grav-harnesses to deactivate and release the Lancers from their seats. Walter Joneson was the first out the door, followed quickly be those Lancers nearest the door, then by those senior members of the team—who carried the boarding tubes—and then lastly by Lu Bu and those seated nearest her.
She had been given the task of covering the shuttle during the first minutes of touching down, and as her armored boots clomped onto the hull of the vessel—apparently named the Cardinal’s Wrath—the magnetic plates built into them activated and she felt the strange sensation of being attached to the vessel’s hull.
Pushing such distractions from her mind, Lu Bu swept the nearby quadrants for motion or other activity. She noted that they had put down beside a point defense turret, and that it was sweeping side-to-side in search of a new target. Her blaster rifle was not rated to take down the target, so she continued her sweep until her quadrant of coverage was clear.
When she checked on Sergeant Joneson’s position, she saw that he and two other senior Lancers were just stepping back from the boarding tube’s cutting apparatus. The device was throwing sparks beneath itself, and after several seconds of activity Joneson called over the com-link, “Lancers: lock mag-boots.”
Lu Bu did as she was instructed, and her boots clamped down onto the hull implacably as the rest of the Lancers did likewise. A few seconds later, the boarding tube’s cutting ring exploded, and a shower of metal debris went flying out away from the hull as the tube itself was destroyed by the explosive decompression issuing from within the ship’s hull.
The gases vented for a surprisingly short period of time before Sergeant Joneson ordered, “Disengage mag-locks and prepare to engage. First squad, you’re with me,” he ordered, and a half dozen Lancers followed as Walter Joneson leapt into the newly-formed hole, which was barely large enough for a Lancer’s power-armored bulk to fit through.
Corporal Gnuko led his team in next, followed by Corporals Thomas and Sherman, which left only Corporal Unger and his squad, of which Lu Bu was a part.
“Move in, Lancers,” Unger ordered as he too dove into the breach. Lu Bu was to be the last through the hole, as
she had been given the less-than-prestigious, but wholly important position of rearguard to her squad. The other members of her smaller squad, comprised of only four members including Corporal Unger, went through the breach before she followed. She had to tuck her arms in as she held onto her blaster rifle, and landed solidly onto the deck-plates of an apparently uninhabited corridor.
“Gnuko, take point,” Joneson ordered, gesturing down one direction of the hall. Corporal Gnuko and his Lancers quickly made their way down the hallway to the nearest corridor, and Joneson continued, “Unger, cover the rear. The rest of you are with me.”
The team advanced as one down the corridor, with Lu Bu flanking Corporal Unger as they provided cover. Her eyes snapped back and forth, scanning for any signs of movement as they hurried to make their way to Sergeant Joneson’s intended destination.
“Here,” Joneson ordered, “Sherman, deploy the second cracker. Gnuko, secure that junction,” he pointed to a nearby intersection.
“Larry that, sir,” Gnuko replied as he led his men down the corridor. They had just taken up positions providing omnidirectional cover before the Corporal yelled, “Contact!”
His men began firing, and Lu Bu risked a glance over her shoulder to see which direction the enemy was coming from. She saw that Gnuko and his men appeared to be firing down both the left and right corridors, but thankfully the corridor facing the rest of the Lancers was bereft of enemy troops—for now.
“Crack that thing open, Sherm,” Joneson growled before signaling toward the junction. “Thomas, support Gnuko.”
“On it, Sarge,” he replied evenly as he and his Lancers went to provide additional support.
“Eyes forward, Lu,” Unger snapped, and Lu Bu had to return her focus to the task at hand. She cursed herself silently for allowing the excitement of the moment to break her focus on the task assigned to her squad, and she took up a kneeling position in front of her Corporal as the Lancer to her left did likewise. Her blaster was set up for a left-handed operator, so it was tactically advantageous for her to line up on the rightward wall.
No Middle Ground Page 23
